Memories
by Caledvwlch
Summary: Even the sweetest memories can become the most painful nightmares. And there are some wounds that even time cannot heal.


_**Author's Note:** I debated for quite a while whether or not I should upload this one. It feels almost...personal to me, in a weird way. Like "Letters", this involves my f!Cousland Elora, and was mostly inspired by Zevran's epilogue in the Ultimate Sacrifice ending (if the character was in a romance with him)_. _Enjoy, thanks for reading, and I apologize for the angst. ^^;;_

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It had been her eyes that had first captivated him. They were wide and mischievous, almost like a child's, and the deep brown of fine molasses. In fact, those eyes had been the first thing Zevran had seen when he found himself only mostly dead instead of all dead. There had been other people surrounding him, and a dog that, judging by the numbness in his legs, was sitting on him. And most of them were quite good looking, especially the brunette who stood behind the others, glowering at him with her odd golden eyes, but something about the slender young woman directly in front of him held his attention. Her dark auburn hair was cut boyishly short, her leather armor was spattered with blood and Maker only knew what else, and she clearly needed a bath, but she was beautiful. Perhaps not in the way of Antivan noble women, or even what could be called "classic beauty", but the assassin imagined that she had probably broken hearts before.

_But there are worse things in life than serving the whims of a deadly sex goddess_

Next it was her laugh. It was infectious, and not at all the laugh of a proper young lady of pedigree. She loved to tease and flirt, often rendering the Chantry raised Alistair completely tongue-tied. The only one she ever seemed serious around was Sten, the giant Qunari, and even then she would flash that impudent smile at him, causing him to roll his eyes more often than not. But sometimes, when she thought no one could see her, she looked as though she was about to break in half.

_Tsk. You look so tired, my dear. It is all this constant walking and fighting. I think I know what you need_

Love was the last thing he had been counting on. He had thought that he couldn't love, not after Rinna. Yet something inside him stirred, something the Crows should have killed long ago. His breath caught in his throat when her hair caught the glow of the campfire, when he woke to find her lying next to him breathing softly, when she smiled and tweaked his nose. An iron band seemed to constrict around his heart when he thought about the very real possibility that she could be killed in battle. The night after Arl Howe's death, when she shook with sobs from long overdue grief, when he had simply held her without saying a word, he had felt so helpless. And it scared him. He thought about running, but a voice in the back of his head whispered for him to stay.

She was beautiful, even in battle. He remembered thinking that as they fought their way through Fort Drakon. She was beautiful, and she was his, and together they were going to save Ferelden. And afterwards…

She acted so quickly that night. He turned just in time to see her bolt forward, grabbing a sword from one of the fallen darkspawn as she ran. On the far side of the fort, the Archdemon thrashed violently. It knew its death was upon it. A pit seemed to open in his stomach as he watched her run, watched her go skidding onto her knees as she sliced the Archdemon from tip to tail. A voice from somewhere behind him desperately screamed for someone to stop her. It sounded like Alistair. He remembered glancing at Sten and seeing something he never wanted to see on the stoic giant's face. Fear. His stomach turned knots as he ran toward the Archdemon, Sten close on his heels.

She had seemed so sad when he came to her room that last night in Redcliffe.

He pitched forward, caught on Sten's outstretched arm. The light was blinding. Somewhere inside it he could see her, sword thrust deep into the back of the Archdemon's skull. The explosion shook the fort, sending all on the rooftop sprawling to the ground. Then, silence.

_You must think I'm royally stupid._

_I think you're royally hard to kill. And utterly gorgeous…_

Zevran opened his eyes slowly, squinting against the early morning light that peeked through the shutters. A dream. Just another bad dream. Rolling out of bed, he glanced down at the pillow beside his.

Empty. As it had been ever since that night.


End file.
